


throwing knives into a storm

by FeoplePeel



Series: Her Majesties of Fillory [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Character Study, F/F, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: Margo bleeds and inherits a kingdom. Fen keeps her knives and marries a High King.





	throwing knives into a storm

**Author's Note:**

> What I set out to write: Margo as High King, shoving responsibility of Fillorian matters to someone (see: her wife, Fen), and kisses.  
> What I wrote: That, but also pirates and a knife throwing competition.

“It could have been worse,” she tells Baylor, packing her best knives beneath her best breeches.

“We can kill them now,” he says, has said every day since they were seven, trying to catch fish with their hands ( _the new King’s fingernails were painted the color of her lips and could never catch a fish_ ). Twelve and teaching him how to throw daggers deep into grain ( _how deeply her father’s blade had cut into the King’s hand_ ). Sixteen and promising to kill whatever child of Earth tried to take her when they came.

Something about those moments seemed so far when the time came, the woman named Margo staring at her bleeding hand in mute wonder.

When the King told father she couldn’t marry Fen, she called it ‘entrapment’; spoke about ‘consent’, and a host of other things that Fen, distracted by thoughts of the wide halls of Whitespire and more food than her empty stomach could imagine, missed.

At one point, Margo called her _pretty_. I’m going to marry a woman, Fen thought, and something in her chest settled, happily, like the first time she'd skinned a rabbit right; all its fur jerking away in one smooth tug.

“I don’t want to kill her,” Fen tells him. “I want to help her. Help Fillory.”

* * *

Where High King Margo was tentative about the marriage, she is enthusiastic about the consummation.

“You ever tried this with a woman?” Margo’s asked a variation of this question three different times about three different acts. Fen had done things; private, intimate things. Shared an uncountable number of kisses from a handsome woman during Ember’s Day and touched a runaway sister of the Morgan Downs Monastery between her thighs before she ran again. There was the memorable time Baylor had taken her to the Milkwater River and watched the naiads stroke her nipples to hard peaks in order that they might cross over to the Brass City, an exchange which Fen still claims to own the greater end of, and one of many acts that Margo now replicates with the fanaticism of a zealot.

Laying against Margo’s stomach afterwards quiets some of the more traitorous thoughts that Fen has. Thoughts like why they bothered doing this ( _It will not produce an heir_ ). Thoughts of how lonely she’ll be when Margo finds out the truth ( _Does she have to find out_ ).

It only takes a week for Baylor to mingle his way into the regular faces of the castle’s staff but he seems to be, for all intents and purposes, simply watching. Gathering information and reporting it back from what Fen can tell. Fen attributes this to her King being a woman.

Fillory has never had a woman for High King, a fact that the court will not allow Margo and the other Kings and Queens to forget. A fact that makes Margo bristle with resentment and swell with pride. She enjoys being the first to things, the best at things.

Margo is the first. Fen supposes he would have had no trouble at all, killing a man for her, unseating a male King. And because Margo is the best High King they've had in memory, she says as much to Margo, when she confesses.

“Was that a _possibility_?” King Eliot’s eyebrows are at the bottom of his crown. _Just Eliot_ , a corrective voice inside her head that sounds like Margo’s harsh reprimand, odd accent, snap then sweet consolatory, _He’s a friend, not better than you_.

“I don’t want beef with your ex, Fen.” Margo lounges sideways across her seat at the table, arm perched imperiously, brow raised imperiously, drawing Fen’s attention to every movement--attractive, imperious. “He wants you back? I say go, be free.”

Fen knows Margo doesn't mean it cruelly; but Fen was the one raised to this so she opens her arms, smiling between her Kings.

“I am _your_ wife. He knows that.”

Besides, Fen has read all the texts on fidelity available to her at Whitespire, and it hasn't changed what she has to admit to said wife. It takes another week of denial to work up the courage to explain as much to Margo.

“You’re allowed to wed another,” Fen finally lets the words loose, speaking as plainly as possible so there can be no confusion. “A man.”

Margo takes her in, wary expression still before slipping into something cooler. “Jesus you people don't think one arranged marriage is enough?”

To her left, Tick steps forward, voice dripping like sticky maple. He smells like tree moss, like fungus. Ember, he’s annoying. “Eventually you will need to continue the royal line and while Fen is...hm--”

 _Oh just say it, you toad_. Fen shoots him an unkind look and somehow keeps her tongue in her mouth. It’s easier to act more ladylike around the Kings and Queens. It feels like all of the Fillorians can see what a child she still is.

“Enough, _enough_ ,” Margo stands, hands on her hips like she’s posing for a statue. She _should_ commission a statue, Fen thinks. “This is a private matter, you peons. _Disperse_.” When no one moves to leave she drops her arms, her shoulders, though her voice rises. “I said _leave_ ! Get the _fuck out_!”

And this time they listen. “Do you _want_ to be a mother?”

“I always assumed I would be.”

“Not what I asked,” Margo’s sentence flows off of the end of Fen’s words, as if that were the answer she was expecting. She sounds disappointed, she sounds _resigned_. She takes a breath. “Think about it, Fen. What do _you_ want?”

Fen imagines what a child with Margo would be like. The wavering picture there refuses to solidify into something solid. It's an idea, like what she might want for dinner that night or which fabric she might choose for her dress. There's no emotion attached to it, as she expects there to be. So she turns the question on Margo instead.

“Do you want a child?”

“Haven’t given it much thought,” Margo admits, flopping back into her throne with a lack of grace she rarely shows to the court, if only because the outfits she wears won’t allow it.

“You…,” Fen coughs into her hand and tries again when Margo casts a curious look in her direction. “You _should_. You’re the High King!”

“Fen,” she replies, slowly. “I want to make one thing _perfectly_ clear. I might, maybe someday marry a man. But if I do? It won’t be because I want to make babies with him. It _especially_ won’t be because I’m _supposed_ to make babies with him.”

“But _I can’t_ —” Fen reaches for that image again, wills it to be more than what it is. Still, nothing. "What if I--what if _we_ change our minds?"

“We'll adopt!” Margo leans forward to pat her cheek. The usual comfort feels utterly condescending. Fen's chest heats. “Think outside the box a little! Fillory is so upset because a Child of Earth is on the throne? Let’s put a real Fillorian kid up here.”

Fen smiles tightly. “As your High King wishes.”

* * *

All Margo and King Eliot do is sit around and drink. Host parties that bleed the treasury claiming it’s for morale.

“Well what do you do for fun?” Margo asks when she brings this up, gaze flat and weighing on Fen like a hangman’s axe.

“Fun?”

“You’re my wife.” Margo’s tone is even, reasonable, but the hand not holding her drink moves in small, dismissive circles. “So I wanna know.”

She doesn’t sound like she wants to know. She sounds greatly put upon. Fen takes her to the stables to show her anyway.

“This is fun?”Margo examines the set of new knives her father had sent from the village. A wedding present, he’d said.

She throws one past Margo’s shoulder and straight into a straw target, put away by the soldiers after practice. “Try it.”

“I’m going to hit a horse,” Margo says under her breath, finishing the last of her drink. “Or a person. But you know what? Some of the people working here are crap anyway, time to make some budget cuts.”

"You could host less parties," Fen suggests again.

"Tell you what," Margo points the hilt of the knife in Fen's direction. "If the tip of this blade makes it into even one piece of wood, I don't change a damn thing. Deal?"

"Deal!" Fen says quickly.

She cranks her arm back. Fen can already see the knife isn’t going anywhere near its intended target. It isn’t going to hit a horse either, at least. It _does_ bounce off a slat of wood and ricochet into a bucket of water. Margo ducks before it lands.

“Shit!” Margo laughs, standing shakily on her heeled shoes. Fen steadies her by the elbow, then goes to fetch the knife.

"I win." Fen grins triumphantly, wiping the knife off on a towel and placing it back with its sisters. Margo runs a hand along them, plucking up the smallest and twirling it by the hilt.

"Yeah, yeah, less booze and Choos, I heard you."

"Huh."

“What?” Margo finally says when Fen won’t stop looking at her.

“It's only...you’re _not_ good at everything.”

Margo picks up her drink, smiling along the rim. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Fen closes the case from her father, one knife short.

* * *

The other Kings and Queen she learns by small measures. She knows them by their relationship to Margo, and Eliot she knows best because they are infrequently not together.

Eliot makes good drinks, gives Fen solidly warm hugs (particularly when he thinks she may say something to make him uncomfortable), and he's mostly there for her wife's sanity. He's the king she imagined marrying (and, on occasion, killing); regal, handsome, and aloof.

Margo and Quentin are closer than Margo enjoys admitting. She trusts him, goes to him before her own advisors. Fen spends a day in the library with him, reading and talking to him about Fillory. Margo loves the country she rules too, but not with the wide-eyed enthusiasm that Quentin possesses. A little thought worms its way into Fen’s mind; that she may have been luckier-- _happier--_ with him. But she also remembers Quentin After Alice and thinks she doesn’t understand the man at all.

Alice frightens her. What Alice had become, the potential for what she can do now that she is whole again. But maybe, if they had been married...maybe she could have helped. Alice passes her in the hall on her way out of Fillory one day and looks right through Fen.

On second thought, Alice may have devised a way to be rid of her by now.

* * *

Fen considers her first kidnapping, largely, a success. She’s taken by a band of pirates, not a rival kingdom, so it’s not quite to the level of Queen Millistread, but she’ll make the history books for being stolen along with the kingdom’s fastest ship. The King of the pirates takes the largest knife hidden in the hem on the spine of her dress, and the smaller two at her hip and nestled against her thigh. But they don’t know about the one stitched into her boot or the three razor-sharp pins she keeps in her cloth bracelet. By the fourth time they come to check on her, and the third man they’ve lost, the Pirate King is there to offer her a job.

She’s never considered piracy before. She wonders what Margo will say if she asks for this ship...

She doesn’t have to wait long.

“Hey, Scourge of the Seven Thundercunts!” If there was any doubt the commotion above deck was caused by anything but the approaching High King, _that_ erased all of it. “Give me back my fucking wife!”

The Pirate King talks to Margo about a private cabin. The look Margo gives her is one Fen’s only seen used when Margo’s three fingers deep in _her_ , and calling her beautiful. She knows jealousy. It’s ugly and cruel, and it rolls up her throat like sea foam. Fen lets loose her three pins--her _last_ defense--and they stick in the board beside the Pirate King's ear. Functionally useless, she thinks, but a very symbolic _point_.

She expects Margo to be mad; Margo, above all things, doesn’t like to be tied down. _Owned_. But she simply jerks her head to one side instead. “You heard the woman. Get out of here while I’m feeling _charitable_.”

When they’re alone, Margo runs her hands over Fen--hair and face and arms--checking her roughly and pulling away with a satisfied nod.

“Ah,” Fen hears Eliot’s wistful sigh from the door frame. “There’s nothing quite like being loved by Margo.”

Fen lets herself be led to the deck, and tries not to dwell on that.

“I get it,” Margo says, when they’ve finally made it back to Whitespire, to their bed. She’s playing with the smallest knife from the set Fen’s father gifted them. “You don’t like people touching your shit.” Her gaze slides sideways. “Neither do I.”

* * *

The sex is always good. Fen finds it reassuring that, for all of their differences, they are of a like mind here.

After one such occasion, when Fen’s left proudly examining a large bruise behind Margo’s (likely aching) jaw, Margo turns to stare at her, dopey expression morphing into something serious.

 _That’s new_ , Fen thinks, heartbeat picking up.  

“Quentin says you can tour Fillory. See the locals, ask what they need.” Margo is no longer looking at her. “Says it’s _tradition_. Or it used to be.”

Margo says tradition the same way she says council meeting and property taxes. Fen pulls the sheets up between her legs, ignoring the lingering soreness there, and covers her breasts.

There hadn’t been a Fillorian King or Queen since long before Fen was born. “I don’t know what tradition is anymore.”

“This place was given to me on a silver platter, so you bet your pretty pink ass I'm gonna rule it. But this is _your_ country, Fen.” Margo slips out from under the covers Fen had drawn up around herself like a sheath, boldly standing in front of the open window. Margo is the kind of daring Fen wishes she could be. “If you don't try to rule it from where you are than what's the point? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“That's not...that's not how I was raised.” Fen feels a spark of...anger. She’s more mad than she’s felt in a long time. Margo looks angrier. Fen finds some measure of calm in that.

“Tough tits, Fen. It's not fair. It's not an order, just,” Margo paces the room, circling back to the bed. “Stop doubting yourself. _Jesus_. Do what you think is best. You're a Queen right?”

Fen takes a deep breath and stares straight at Margo. “I’m _the_ Queen. _Your_ Queen.”

“Damn straight, you gorgeous little weirdo.”

* * *

Fen sets out with Kady and Penny, two children of Earth she hardly knows at all, but who Margo assures will protect her better than any of the palace guard should trouble arise.

They're both quiet, but neither seem to mind as Fen chatters at them, pointing out bits of geography that never seemed unusual to her until she viewed them now, as through the eyes of a non-native. Kady is especially fond of the forested areas and Fen tries to recall as many trees as she is able for her. Penny seems happiest when Kady is happy.

His mood is somewhat dampened by Quentin, who has insisted on coming as well and asks the most unusual questions. She wishes she had studied religion more closely, or paid more attention to the Chatwins. Margo had read _those books_ too, had shown her their glossy covers, but the lessons she had taken from them were far different from Quentin’s.

 _Are there other countries?_ She’d asked, early in their marriage. _More than what’s written about?_ She had wanted to know if Fillory could make peace with them, or war, or trade. All with the same excitement that Quentin had now, telling her about how Jane Chatwin had walked over that hill, just there, and into that forest for some quest.

There is a list of grievances waiting for her at her small village, written in Baylor’s hand. He is mayor now, Old Gregor having passed away a scant six months after Fen's wedding, and Margo having decreed him so on Fen’s behalf. The other mayors and heads of houses they had met had complaints, also, though Baylor looks more _smug_ about his. Fen fights to look regal, not to roll her eyes at the sight of this _boy_ playing at government. Eventually she loses, eyes heavenward when he cocks a hip and grins at her.

"Come on Q." Kady jumps from the side of the cart and takes the list from Baylor. "We can fix some of these by dinner."

"If things continue as they are, there may be a _true_ Fillorian on the throne before we die," Baylor tells her over a meal of roasted goose with oyster and chestnut stuffing, eggplant, apples, cheese, and honeyed bread. It’s a traditional Fillorian feast, some foods she’s not thought to ask for at the castle. She knows Josh will cook anything she asks, but perhaps it's the thought of eating _these_ foods outside of _this_ place that’s stopped her.

Her father steps through the door and whatever she was going to say slips from her mind. They’ve kept in close contact, but letters are nothing for the sound of his voice and the familiar smell of the forge on his beard. Margo’s well-meaning advice and Eliot’s very warm hugs don’t always make up for what she lost when she left home.

She should have come here sooner.

Later on, she takes her mostly empty cup of granatus to the slowly dimming fire, watches Baylor weave out of the small crowd to join her. They chat amicably, about the food, the journey, the local villages, and all seems like it was until Margo’s name is, inevitably, invoked.

"I'm glad I didn't kill her," Baylor says after a quiet moment of contemplation.

"I'm happy you didn't too."

"Are you," he presses. "Happy I mean?"

Fen looks over his shoulder, at her father, slapping Quentin’s back so roughly some of his ale slips out of his mug and onto Penny’s leg. Penny’s eyes narrow at the spot and Kady sits back to watch the show.

This is the same village she grew up in, the same food, and she’s beside the boy she’d loved the whole of her childhood. But everything about it feels different. Her life feels...wider.

She smiles around the rim of her empty cup, remembering a night where Margo had done much the same. “I’m happy.”

* * *

“Did you want to go back to Whitespire?” Kady pulls two of Fen’s plaits above her head and pins them there.

“Father says there’s a knife throwing competition in Barren Rock in two weeks time.” Fen thinks about her knives at the castle, her best set packed before marriage and left untouched for some time. She makes a quick decision. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to participate before going back.”

Kady looks more excited about the idea than she had about the trees. “Sounds like fun.”

Fen walks down the hall of her father’s house, where she can still hear Penny and Quentin arguing in the room that used to be hers. She waits for a gap in their bickering, fist hovering in front of the wood grain, smile pasted on her face.

“Penny,” she peeks around the door. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you for a favor?”

* * *

The day of the competition she sees the High King is there bickering lightly with Quentin until Eliot draws him in, hushing Margo gently. Fen feels a bubbling happiness at seeing Eliot, and even Alice off by herself a ways, examining the frame of one of the tents. The King and Queen have spent much of their time lately repairing the Wellspring and, judging by the small smile Alice throws in her direction, things are going smoothly. Fen can’t help but grin back, though the enthusiasm behind her action probably overwhelms Alice, judging by the other woman’s startled reaction.

The mysterious Julia is here too, her smile gentler than Alice’s tight dimpling or Margo’s sharp joy. But between Margo’s distrust and Kady’s _complete_ confidence, Fen thinks it best she avoids her for now. Julia is speaking to Kady, at the moment, and Fen picks up the word ‘hedge witch’ before she ducks away towards Margo. Kady talked to her about the Hedge Witches coming to Fillory, her only point of contention being some sort of class struggle Fen doesn’t feel equipped to address.

Fen will address it with Margo anyway, on Kady’s behalf. They were all magicians, she doesn’t see the problem. Clearly neither does Margo if Julia is here now.

Fen approaches Margo as she would in the council chambers, which feels odd. They are outside where it smells like shale and horse shit, and Margo isn't wearing one of her beautiful gowns. She's dressed in a billowing white shirt and brown vest, the only thing differentiating her from any of the common folk is the crown sitting atop her head, catching the light and sparkling whenever she moves.

“I dealt with the local petitions. Honestly, Kady and Quentin did most—”

“Hey, did you show up, make nice with them?” Margo interrupts. Fen nods. “That’s _your_ part of the job." She crosses her arms, lips pursed. “I gotta admit I was a little insulted when you sent Penny for your knives and didn’t _invite_ me to your big day. I figured you were just nervous. _So_ I decided I’d invite the gang, give you some familiar faces in the crowd.”

“Oh,” Fen says seriously. “Thank you.”

Margo is clearly fighting a smile, and doing a terrible job. Finally she relents, her eye roll as exaggerated as her tone, and Fen thinks, _That’s where I picked that up._ “You’re _welcome_.”

“I...I’m glad you came! Honestly!” Fen stops herself from saying, _I missed you_. _Had_ she missed Margo? She had spent a lot of their journey thinking about Margo, and what Margo could do for their kingdom, and its people. But to miss her…, “I—”

“Relax, Fen, I believe you.” Margo holds up her hands to still any further comment. “Besides, I had to come. Penny forgot this.” Margo reaches into a small leather purse by her hip and pulls from it the knife she had taken from Fen's marriage set. Fen doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s already selected the three knives she’ll be throwing, all from her best set instead. She holds it up for a moment before sliding it into her boot with a fond smile.

Fen casts for something else to say. She has to leave for the field soon, but she and Margo have never had the chance to talk this way before, like two commoners going about their day in the square. She wants to keep talking to her.

Umber’s balls, maybe Fen _had_ missed her.

From somewhere behind her shoulder, a trumpet sounds.

“Guess that’s you.” Margo tilts her chin in the direction of the noise, eyes sparkling. “Aren’t you supposed to wear my favour or something?”

“Hm…,” Fen examines her. Without her usual finery, there isn’t much of a selection that won’t leave Margo completely nude. “Your scarf, I think.”

Margo takes a step back, arms held out with a wild smirk. “Take it then.”

Fen takes a step forward to wrap her arms around Margo’s shoulders, undoing the knot of the scarf covering her chest and letting it hang loose. She takes a knee before Margo, clasping her left hand as she sinks, and places a kiss upon her knuckles. When she dares to make eye contact, it’s to see Margo staring down at her, a little dazed.

Margo takes the scarf and ties it around Fen’s wrist, laying a hand over it and squeezing lightly.

“Now you’d better win. That’s the Destroyer’s scarf.” Margo helps her rise. “And make it quick. I left Josh in charge and what seemed like a fun idea at the time is rapidly feeling like self-sabotage.”

* * *

Moris, the sure bet to win for the day, is a svelte man with tan, toned arms and a sharp face. “If I win, you must allow me to lay with the High King,” he tells her, as they lay out their knives on the bales behind them.

Fen lets loose a laugh, loud and braying even to her ears. “If _I_ win, you must tell her you said that!” And turns away without seeing the expression he makes in response.

Kady has entered the competition too, which isn’t a surprise to Fen, though her agreement to a magic-dampening spell for the event is. She’s earned enough support in the villages that they’ve traveled through that most of the crowd is there for her, and cheers her on, even when she misses.

She gives Fen an encouraging pat on the shoulder as she makes her way off of the field, leaving only Moris and Fen, and their knives.

They’re even to the last throw. Moris tugs out the third polished blade from his bale and turns, presenting forward with a much shorter knife, the hilt a lighter brown. Some sleight of hand, she thinks, has taken place in the length of his sleeve. Likely with a knife more suited to balance and to get her to choose an equally large knife. As she suspects, the blade strikes true in its target, the closest to the mark thus far and, should she not hit closer, he _will_ win this.

Fen stares at her own knife, sticking innocently from the bale, waiting happily for her hand. She turns from it, doesn’t bother with trickery; she is the Queen, after all. She bends at the waist, taking the opportunity to run fingers along Margo’s scarf, and pulls the small knife from her boot. It takes a bit of effort to ignore the sounds of small mutterings from the crowd and one, familiar, _whoop_ that she recognizes instantly as Margo.

She knows she will win before the knife hits the target, but it feels good to see the blade hit so deep it hardly moves, to hear the cheers of the crowd around her.

Moris stares at her dumbstruck, with slow horror dawning. She remembers their earlier bet and realises why. “Oh, I won’t _actually_ make you tell her.” It’s not likely that Margo will execute the man, but the potential is there and that’s enough. “But you should be more careful about how you speak about your High King.” She draws herself up. “And _to_ your Queen.”

He bows his head, seems to think better of it, and bows further still. Fen tries, and fails, not to preen. “Yes, your majesty. My apologies.”

* * *

Josh cooks them a feast upon their return, and Fen's eyes linger on her favorite dishes scattered throughout. Here she sees a through-line of care the others likely miss. Penny, who must have told Margo the dishes they had eaten the night he came to get her knives. Margo who had enough forethought to tell Josh about them. Josh, who painstakingly recreated them while he ruled in Margo's place (though the latter he likely did little of, if Tick is to be believed).

So it takes her aback when Margo asks:

“Fen, do you actually _want_ to be here? Still, after everything you've seen out there?”

Margo talks about Fillory as though Fen hasn't spent her whole life getting to know it. That something new will pop up and surprise her, draw her attention away from the wonder that is Margo. So far the biggest surprise in Fillory _is_ Margo.

“How noble do you think I am?”

“Not noble! Traditional!" Margo counters. When she says traditional this time, it sounds almost fond. "I know that about you and I accept that. Hell, I embrace it. But I know me too. As much as I’m _a catch_ , I’m not exactly a ball of sunshine to be around. To...settle down with.”

“I’d hardly call what we’ve done _settling down_.” Fen laughs into her wine goblet, the alcohol making her giddy enough to say what’s on her mind. "Besides, you have all of my favorite foods here."

Margo gives her a dazzling smile. One of the real ones she holds on reserve for Eliot, or Quentin when he’s said something particularly smart and usually by accident. She wraps her arms around Fen's shoulders, drawing her back until they're tucked into the corner of the room more privately.

“I’ve considered the others,” Fen looks around them, speaking low enough so only they can hear. “And I think Umber got this part right. You and me.”

“Ah yeah? Divine Intervention?”

Fen watches Eliot dance between Alice and Quentin with a drink in each hand, seemingly vexed as to which belonged to whom. “I love Eliot but...I wouldn’t want to marry him." Eventually Alice snatches the drink held closest to her, downing it in one gulp. "Or Alice.”

Margo looks torn between throwing her head back to laugh and kissing Fen. In the end she does both.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [greywash](https://greywash.dreamwidth.org/) whose meta I read through the whole of season 4, as well as her conversations with [breathedout](https://breathedout.dreamwidth.org/). A lot of their meta inspires how I see the characters and I especially enjoyed their conversations that touched on colonialism with regards to Fillory.
> 
> Always feel free to talk to me on [tumblr](http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/)!


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